Evangelism
by shestewa
Summary: Ezekiel is a high elf studying the ways of the light, in the hopes to become a priest. With great intentions, however do not always come great outcomes. With great desires, do not come great results. In his search for the tenets of the holy light, what shall he find within himself?


_**A/N -** Hello all! This is my first real fanfiction, regarding my Blood Elf priest and his journey in training and learning the ways during his youth before the fall of Quel'thalas in the glorious lands of the High Elves. This is an intro only, and the first chapter should come soon! Please feel free to leave any comments or questions and I'll answer all I can without giving too much away. Unlike many writers, I feel that writing has a musical component, and with each chapter I will link musical accompaniments which you should play while reading. It's not compulsory, but I feel it adds an extra dimension to the atmosphere if chosen appropriately. Writing is and amazingly fun activity, and most writers listen to music while doing so - it only makes sense to me to share that atmosphere with any who choose to read. Links can be pasted after the obvious ytb to create the full link. Alternatively you can simply youtube the song name and artist yourself!_

_**Disclaimer:** I don't own Warcraft, Blizzard or any of its intellectual property, and this fanfiction is for personal enjoyment and for no commercial purposes at all. If I did own Warcraft, I wouldn't be a poor medical student eating rice 5 times per week._

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_**Introduction**_

_**Song Accompaniment:** Flugufrelsarínn - Sigur Rós_

_**Link: ** watch?v=lfKFFeHjgTI_

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In the tranquility of Eversong Woods, the moon cast a pearlescent light through the canopy, gently illuminating the verdant expanse in an eerie green glow. The elves, all seeking the haven of their plush beds, left the paths and walkways empty, and the forest lay silent, bar the patter of the rain which fell rhythmically through the leaves. Flowers which by day, flourished in eternal bloom were closed; protected from the night. Enchanted wildlife rested in their nests and burrows. The land of Quel'thalas lay fast asleep, waiting for the next dawn of eternal spring.

Through the grass, in a deep part of the forest, a figure, hooded in a white silk robe journeyed through the underbrush. Though its posture betrayed youth, its stride betrayed fatigue: days of traipsing over hills and through valleys, trodding through grasses and bush left it tired. From beneath the protection of his vestments, Ezekiel panted, each further step driving an ache through his legs. High Elves were hardy and tenacious, a race many times stronger, powerful and agile than nature had intended, but they were not immune to exhaustion. His ornate, silver staff, splattered with mud, struck into the earth with each step, aiding him to pull his form further. Though his muscles shuddered with protest at each movement, he continued, noting from the stars that he was close. The shrine was not far from here, or so he hoped. In his mind, he reminded himself of the importance of his task.

_Remember, Ezekiel: Tenacity, Respect, Power._

He soon arrived. A small clearing in a largely uninhabited region of the woods, and there lay his destination. A pillar of polished obsidian several times his height stood tall, a zenith pointing to the sky and the full moon above. It was carved with intricate curves and spirals in true Quel'dorei style across its surface, which reflected the moonlight in impressive fine tendrils. Like the enchanted forest around it, it was mesmerising for its sheer innate beauty in the art, but for one like Ezekiel it was much more. He didn't see the patterns - he knew it was a language. One that few knew, and one that he knew.

_Remember the tongue, Ezekiel, of Tenacity, Respect and Power._

He released a sigh of relief, his immense journey finally over. It had been days without a morsel to eat, and only the water of the rain to drink. He was exhausted, mentally and physically. He threw his staff to the ground, where it splashed into the waterlogged soil, and removed his robes with a newfound fervour. He needed to finish what he had started. Quickly. A nimbleness he had long forgotten miles past led his finger to unbutton cloth and remove vestments until he stood completely naked before the pillar of opalescent reflections. Like most of his race, he was tall and slender; arms and legs shaped and toned with a feminine grace. Though he sported a mop of thick blond hair, his body was completely white and bare, but for the specks of mud which splattered his legs. Falling to his knees before the pillar, he supported himself against the stone for a moment, before righting himself. He began an incantation in tongues long forgotten; lilting and rasping; beautiful yet haunting. With a wavering finger, he cast symbols of a long-dead script in the air before him. He closed his cornflower eyes and prayed. It was dangerous, truly, what he was doing, but he had faith. He must have faith. It would lead him to success. He prayed it would.

_Remember the way, Ezekiel, to Tenacity, Respect and Power._

For almost an hour, he remained there, uttering his spell relentlessly, through his parched and cracked lips, through a throat that croaked from dryness. He traced the invisible runes in the air against the unbearable flames that burned through his arms with each exertion. When it was finally done, tears fell from his eyes, and his hands shook as he reached for a glistening object in the grass beside his robe - a knife, of the same obsidian as the column before him. He grasped it firmly in a fist.

_Trust the way, Ezekiel, to Tenacity, Respect and Power._

With a jarring movement, he thrust the blade into his torso. Immediately, an agony shook his being unlike anything he could have imagined. The wound was painful, but lay nothing besides the agony. A heat, unbearable heat, danced from the dagger through his body. Through each vein and artery a fire ran, infiltrating every cell and every corner of is form. He collapsed to the ground, mouth wide in horror. Were he capable of it, he would have screamed, and screamed of the unfathomable anguish which filled even his soul. It was encapsulating and impossible; his soul was on fire. Opening his eyes, the last thing he saw was his body erupt into holy flame.

Under the moonlight he lay there, screaming silently through the immolation, as he was incinerated alive. Throughout the ordeal, he fought to keep control of his mind, and remember.

_He must remember._

_He must remember._

_Tenacity._

_Respect._

**_Power._**


End file.
